Dear [name redacted],

Based on my limited interactions with you, and what I have learned about you from others, I think it’s highly unlikely that you will read this letter. And even if you do, I’m not optimistic that you will care about its content. But I’m not writing it for you. I’m writing it because what I have to say deserves to be said.

I’m not writing out of anger, but because I want you to understand the weight of your actions. I want you to face the real-world consequences of your decisions.

I’ve chosen not to share your name online, ironically, to protect you from any negative repercussions.

Your actions directly caused the closure of one of the very few remaining safe spaces for a marginalised community. But there was never any need for this to happen.

I repeatedly reached out to you, respectfully asking for a conversation, human to human, so I could explain how I was already in the process of resolving your issue—the inconvenience of noise. You refused, again and again, and chose instead to report me to the council, setting off a series of events that ended in the closure of my business.

Your refusal to talk to me, and your inability to see past your own inconvenience, has led to consequences for others far worse than mere inconvenience—particularly for the sex workers who relied on my studio for safety, dignity, and survival.

The community you disrupted is not some abstract group. It’s made up of real, good-hearted, honest people—people who have long been discriminated against, rejected, and pushed to society’s margins. Many of us have fought relentlessly to create spaces where we can simply exist without fear of violence or judgment. Studio Sevvven was one of those spaces. It was more than four walls—it was a sanctuary.

In that sanctuary, sex workers, queer people, trans people, neurodivergent people, and many others who face constant discrimination found refuge. They came not only to work but to connect, learn, share, and heal. The events and workshops held here weren’t just for entertainment—they were lifelines. Since the closure, multiple people have told me that attending Studio Sevvven was the first time they had ever been in a space where they felt seen and valued for who they are, rather than shamed or ignored.

Now that it’s gone, the impact is devastating. Many sex workers, who had found a safe and discreet place to work without fear of harassment or violence, might be forced back into unsafe environments. These are not hypothetical risks. Violence against sex workers is a grim reality—statistically well-documented and often ignored by society. By causing this space to close, you have increased the likelihood that some of us will face physical and emotional harm or legal repercussions.

Did you consider any of these factors before doing what you did? Did you think about the possible impact on other people’s lives? Did you think about anyone but yourself? Did you even bother to find out what Studio Sevvven was before you sought to take it down?

Or did you only think about the inconvenience of noise?

Let me be clear: this closure is more than a minor disruption. It’s a reminder of how society systematically erases us and dismisses the spaces we build for survival. Your complaint isn’t just about a small disruption to your daily life. It is a clear and brutal reminder of the stigma that forces people into dangerous, hidden corners of the world where harm is inevitable.

But we will not disappear quietly. We will rebuild, fight, and continue to create safe spaces, whether society accepts them or not. Because the lives, safety, and dignity of this community are non-negotiable.

You may not see the harm you’ve done, but we feel it every day.

I truly hope you learn from this experience and work toward becoming a kinder, more empathetic, and diplomatic individual in the future. Not for my sake, but for the sake of everyone else you cross paths with in this life.

Signed,

Sevvven